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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




John Bunyan 
From the painting by Thomas Sadler 



THE 

PILGRIM'S 

Staff 

Poems Divine and Moral 
Selected (S Arranged 

by 
FitzRoy Carrington 




Printed for 
Duffield iS Company 

NEW YORK 
1906 



-p-R 



1 



LIBS* WV <* 30N8*ESSl 

OCT 8 1906 
OU88 A **•■ ** 

*«4Z ' 



us I 



Entered according to adt of Congress, in the year 1906, by 
Duffield 6 Company, in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress, at Washington. Published September, 1906. 



To the Reader 

CER TAIN friend s who had 
accompanied me through the 
enchanting Jie/ds of lyric verse, 
and for whom " The Queen's 

Garland" was woven ana " The 
Kings' Lyrics" were bound to- 
gether ; being now of graver mood, 
have desired me to gather for 
them a posy of Poems Divine and 
Moral, — chosen from the work of 
writers spiritual or contemplative. 

The burden thus laid upon me by 
so friendly hands I take up the 
more willingly, inasmuch as, with- 
out slighting the poets we so well 



vt To the Reader 

love, from Surrey to Shirley ', it 
extends our acquaintance and en- 
ables us to carry on the lyric line 
from Shirley to Stevenson, and to 
include many sweet singers whose 
verse, albeit well worthy of all 
honour, is, for the most part, read 
but one day in seven. 
It ill becomes the anthologist to 
trespass upon ground usurped by 
the theologian, but this much must 
be admitted, — that if it be possible 
for harmony and loving-kindness 
to sway the hearts of men, and to 
unite under one broad banner war- 
ring denominations, the honour of 
bringing this to pass will be ac- 
corded, in no small measure, to 



To the Reader 



vu 



the writers of spiritual verse. What 
church would not be proud to num- 
ber amongst its members such sweet 
singers as Watts and Cowper, 
John and Charles Wesley ? The 
supreme beauty of < < Lycidas," the 
noble sadness of Bishop Kings 
"Exequy" are a universal heri- 
tage ^ of which nor faith nor infi- 
delity can deprive us. This, then, 
has been my aim, — to gather from 
the verse of three and a half cen- 
turies a handful of poems, beauti- 
ful in thoughts of spiritual import, 
which should refled, as well as 
might be in a space so limited, all 
moods, from the self-abasement 
of utter unworthiness, to the cou- 



viii To the Reader 

rage born of a firm faith in the 
divinity of man , which can face •, 
unafraid, the Great Unknown. 



FitzRoy Carrington 



" Mallowield," Mamaroneck, New York 
May, 1906 



The 

Pilgrim's Staff 

Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) 



Easter 

MOST glorious Lord of Life ! that, on this day. 
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin ; 
And, having harrow'd hell, didst bring away 
Captivity thence captive, us to win : 
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin ; 
And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die, 
Being with Thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin. 
May live for ever in felicity ! 
And that Thy love we weighing worthily, 
May likewise love Thee for the same again ; 
And for Thy sake, that all like dear did'st buy. 
With love may one another entertain ! 

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought, 
— Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. 



The Pilgrim's Staff 
Sir Philip Sidney O554-1586) 



Eternal Love 

LEAVE me, O Love, which reachest but to dust ; 
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things ; 
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; 
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. 
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 
•To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; 
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light 
That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide 
In this small course which birth draws out to death, 
And think how ill becometh him to slide, 
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. 
Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see ; 
Eternal Love, maintain Thy life in me. 



Thomas Nashe 



Thomas Nashe (1567-1600) 
Adieu ; farewell earth's bliss 

k DIEU ; farewell earth's bliss, 
A\ This world uncertain is : 

Fond are life's lustful joys, 
Death proves them all but toys. 
None from his darts can fly : 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us ! 

Rich men, trust not in wealth. 
Gold cannot buy you health ; 
Physic himself must fade ; 
All things to end are made ; 
The plague full swift goes by ; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us ! 

Beauty is but a flower. 
Which wrinkles will devour : 
Brightness falls from the air ; 
Queens have died young and fair ; 
Dust hath closed Helen's eye ; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us I 
3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Strength stoops unto the grave : 
Worms feed on Hedtor brave ; 
Swords may not fight with fate : 
Earth still holds ope her gate. 
Come, come, the bells do cry; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us ! 

Wit with his wontonness, 
Tasteth death's bitterness. 






Hell's executioner 
Hath no ears for to hear 
What vain art can reply ; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us I 

Haste therefore each degree 
To welcome destiny : 
Heaven is our heritage, 
Earth but a player's stage. 
Mount we unto the sky ; 
I am sick, I must die. 

Lord have mercy on us I 



Thomas Campion 



Thomas Campion (15677-1619) 



O come quickly! 



NEVER weather-beaten sail mofe willing bent to 
shore, 
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affedted slumber more, 
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my 

troubled breast : 
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest ! 

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, 
Cold age deaf s not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes : 
Glory there the sun outshines ; whose beams the Blessed 

only see : 
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to 

Thee! 

Awake, awake/ thou heavy 
sprite 



X 



WAKE, awake ! thou heavy sprite 

That sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin ! 
Rise now and walk the ways of light, 
Tis not too late yet to begin. 

5 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Seek heaven early, seek it late ; 
True Faith finds still an open gate. 

Get up, get up, thou leaden man ! 

Thy track to endless joy or pain, 
Yields but the model of a span : 

Yet burns out thy life's lamp in vain ! 
One minute bounds thy bane or bliss ; 
Then watch and labour while time is. 



Anonymous 

Song of Mary the Mother of 
Christ 

HIERUSALEM, my happy home, 
When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end. 
Thy joys when shall I see ? 

O happy harbour of the Saints ! 

O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrow may be found, 

No grief, no care, no toil. 



Anonymous 






There lust and lucre cannot dwell. 

There envy bears no sway ; 
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold. 

But pleasure every way. 

Thy walls are made of precious stones, 
Thy bulwarks diamonds square : 

Thy gates are of right orient pearl, 
Exceeding rich and rare. 

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 

With carbuncles do shine : 
Thy very streets are paved with gold 

Surpassing clear and fine. 

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem, 

Would God I were in thee ! 
Would God my woes were at an end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 

Quite through the streets, with silver sound, 

The flood of Life doth flow ; 
Upon whose banks on every side 

The wood of Life doth grow. 

7 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

There trees for evermore bear fruit, 

And evermore do spring ; 
There evermore the angels sit, 

And evermore do sing. 

Our Lady sings Magnificat 
With tones surpassing sweet : 

And all the virgins bear their part, 
Sitting about her feet. 

Hierusalem, my happy home. 
Would God I were in thee ! 

Would God my woes were at an end, 
Thy joys that I might see I 



Anonymous 



The Coming of the King 

YET if His Majesty, our sovereign lord 
Should of his own accord 
Friendly himself invite. 
And say * I '11 be your guest to morrow night/ 
How should we stir ourselves, call and command 
All hands to work I ' Let no man idle stand. 
8 



Anonymous 



Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall, 

See they be fitted all : 

Let there be room to eat, 

And order taken that there want no meat. 

See every sconce and candlestick made bright 

That without tapers they may give a light. 

Look to the presence : are the carpets spread, 

The dazie o'er the head. 

The cushions in the chairs, 

And all the candles lighted on the stairs ? 

Perfume the chambers, and in any case 

Let each man give attendance in his place.' 

Thus if the king were coming would we do, 

And *t were good reason too ; 

For 'tis a duteous thing 

To show all honour to an earthly king, 

And after all our travail and our cost, 

So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. 

But at the coming of the King of Heaven 

All 's set at six and seven : 

We wallow in our sin, 

Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. 

We entertain him always like a stranger 

And as at first still lodge Him in the manger. 



*■ 



The Pilgrim's Staff 
Sir Henri/ Wotton (1568-1640) 

A Hymn to my God 
In a night of my late sickness 

OH, thou great Power ! in whom I move, 
For whom I live, to whom I die, 
Behold me through thy beams of love, 
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie ; 
And cleanse my sordid soul within, 
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 

No hallowed oils, no grains I need, 

No rags of saints, no purging fire ; 

One rosy drop from David's sttd 

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire : 
O precious ransom ! which once paid, 
That Consummatum est was said: 

And said by Him that said no more, 
But seal'd it with his sacred breath : 
Thou, then, that has dispong'd my score, 
And dying wast the death of Death, 
Be to me now, on Thee I call, 
My life, my strength, my joy, my all I 
10 



John Donne 
John Donne (1573-1631) 



Death 

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called 
Thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so : 
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, 
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me : 
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be. 
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow. 
And soonest our best men with thee do go. 
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell : 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 
And better than thy stroke; — why swell'st thou then? 
Our short sleep past, we wake eternally. 
And Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die I 



II 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Thou hast made me, and shall 
Thy work decay ? 

THOU hast made me, and shall Thy work decay? 
Repair me now ; for now mine end doth haste, 
I run to Death, and Death meets me as fast, 
And all my pleasures are like yesterday. 
I dare not move my dim eyes any way, 
Despair behind, and Death before doth cast 
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste 
By sin in it, which it towards Hell doth weigh ; 

Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee 
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again ; 
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, 
That not one hour myself I can sustain ; 
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, 
And Thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. 

A Hymn to God the Father 

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
Which was my sin, though it were done before? 
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run, 
And do run still, though still I do deplore ? 
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done. 
For I have more. 
12 



Phineas Fletcher 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won 
Others to sin, and made my sin their door ? 
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
A year or two, but wallowed in a score ? 
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, 
For I have more. 

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun 

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ; 
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son 
Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore ; 
And having done that, Thou hast done : 
I fear no more. 



Phineas Fletcher (1584-1650) 
Drop, drop slow tears 

DROP, drop slow tears, 
And bathe those beauteous feet, 
Which brought from heaven 
The news and prince of peace. 
Cease not, wet eyes, 
His mercies to entreat, 

*3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

To cry fof vengeance 

Sin doth never cease. 
In your deep floods 

Drown all my faults and fears ; 
Nor let his eye 

See sin, but through my tears. 



John Amner 

A stranger here, as all my 
fathers were 

A STRANGER here, as all my fathers were 
That went before, I wander to and fro ; 
From earth to heaven is my pilgrimage, 
A tedious way for flesh and blood to go : 
O Thou that art the way, pity the blind 
And teach me how I may Thy dwelling find. 




William Drummond 

From the mezzotint by John Fmlayson 

after the painting by Cornelis Jansen 



k 



William Drummond 

William Drummond (1585-1649) 

The World: A Book to be Read 

OF this fair volume which we World do call, 
If we the sheets and leaves would turn with care 
Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame. 
We dear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
Find out His power which wildest arts doth tame. 
His providence extending everywhere. 
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 
In every page, no period of the same : 
But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold : 
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best. 
Of the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold : 
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught. 
It is some pidture on the margin wrought. 



*5 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

George Wither (1588-1667) 

A Lullaby 

SWEET baby, sleep ! what ails my dear. 
What ails my darling thus to cry ? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear. 
To hear me sing thy lullaby : 
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep : 
Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? 
What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
Thy God is now thy Father dear, 
His holy Spouse, thy Mother too. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep : 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; 
For whosoever thee offends 
By thy Protedtor threaten'd are, 
And God and Angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



16 



George Wither 

When Cod with us was dwelling here. 
In little babes He took delight ; 
Such innocents as thou, my dear. 
Are ever precious in His sight. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep : 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep, 

A little infant once was He ; 
And strength in weakness then was laid 
Upon His Virgin Mother's knee. 
That power to thee might be convey'd. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The King of kings, when He was born. 
Had not so much for outward ease : 
By Him such dressings were not worn, 
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep : 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 
Where oxen lay, and asses fed : 
Warm rooms we do to thee afford. 
An easy cradle or a bed. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep : 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



7 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Thou hast, yet more, to perfedt this, 

A promise and an earnest got 

Of gaining everlasting bliss, 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not : 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe : sweet baby, sleep. 

Inward Comfort 

Written during the time of the Author's impris- 
onment in the Marshalsea 

NOW that my body dead-alive, 
Bereaved of comfort, lies in thrall. 
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive, 
And unto honey turn this gall : 

So shall we both through outward woe, 
The way to inward comfort know. 

As to the flesh we food do give, 

To keep us in this mortal breath : 

So souls on meditations live 

And shun thereby immortal death : 
Nor art thou ever nearer rest. 
Than when thou find'st me most opprest. 

First think, my soul, if I have foes 
That take a pleasure in my care, 
18 



George Wither 

And to procure these outward woes. 

Have thus entrapped me unaware ; 

Thou should'st by much more careful be. 
Since greater foes lay wait for thee. 

Then when mew'd up in grates of steel. 
Minding those joys mine eyes do miss, 
Thou find'st no torment thou dost feel, 
So grievous as privation is : 

Muse how the damn'd, in flames that glow, 
Pine in the loss of bliss they know. 

Thou seest there *s given so great might 

To some that are but clay as I ; 

Their very anger can affright, 

Which, if in any thou espy, 

Thus think ; if mortals' frowns strike fear, 
How dreadful will God's wrath appear ? 

By my late hopes that now are crost, 

Consider those that firmer be : 

And make the freedom I have lost, 

A means that may remember thee : 
Had Christ not thy redeemer bin, 
What horrid thrall thou had'st been in. 

These iron chains, these bolts of steel. 
Which other poor offenders grind, 

*9 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

The wants and cares which they do feel, 
May bring some greater thing to mind ; 
For by their grief thou shalt do well, 
To think upon the pains of hell. 

Or, when through me thou seest a man 
Condemn'd unto a mortal death, 
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan, 
Drawing with fear his panting breath ; 
Think, if in that such grief thou see, 
How sad will 'Go, ye cursed/ be. 

Again, when he that fear'd to die, 
Past hope doth see his pardon brought, 
Read but the joy that *s in his eye, 
And then convey it to thy thought ; 

There think, betwixt thy heart and thee, 
How sweet will 'Come, ye blessed/ be. 

Thus if thou do, though closed here. 
My bondage I shall deem the less, 
I neither shall have cause to fear, 
Nor yet bewail my sad distress ; 

For whether live, or pine, or die 

We shall have bliss eternally. 



20 



George Wither 

For Anniversary Marriage- 
Days 

LORD ! living here are we 
As fast united yet, 

As when our hands and hearts by Thee 
Together first were knit ; 
And in a thankful song 
Now sing we will Thy praise, 
For that Thou dost as well prolong 
Our loving as our days. 

Together we have now 

Begun another year, 
But how much time Thou wilt allow. 

Thou mak'st it not appear : 

We therefore do implore, 

That live and love we may 
Still so, as if but one day more 

Together we should stay. 

Let each of other's wealth 
Preserve a faithful care, 
And of each other's joy and health, 
As if one soul we were : 
Such conscience let us make, 
Each other not to grieve, 

21 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

As if we daily were to take 
Ouf everlasting leave. 

The frowardness that springs 

From our corrupted kind. 
Or from those troublous outward things 

Which may distract the mind ; 

Permit Thou not, O Lord ! 

Our constant love to shake, 
Or to disturb our true accord, 

Or make our hearts to ache. 

But let these frailties prove 

Affection's exercise, 
And that discretion teach our love 

Which wins the noblest prize: 

So time, which wears away, 

And ruins all things else, 
Shall fix our love on Thee for aye, 

In whom perfection dwells. 



22 



Henry King 

Henry King^ Bishop of Chi- 
chester (1591-1669) 

The Exequy 
On the Death of a Beloved Wife 

k CCEPT, thou Shrine of my dead Saint, 
f\ Instead of Dirges this complaint : 

And for sweet flowres to crown thy hearse, 
Receive a strew of weeping verse 
From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see 
Quite melted into tears for thee. 

Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate, 

My task hath been to meditate 

On thee, on thee: thou art the book. 

The library, whereon I look, 

Though almost blind. For thee (lov'd clay) 

I languish out, not live, the day, 

Using no other exercise 

But what I practice with mine eyes: 

By which wet glasses, I find out 

How lazily time creeps about 



*3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

To one that mourns: this, onely this, 
My exercise and bus'ness is: 
So I compute the weary houres 
With sighs dissolved into showres. 

Nor wonder, if my time go thus 
Backward and most preposterous; 
Thou hast benighted me: thy set 
This Eve of blackness did beget, 
Who was't my day, (though overcast, 
Before thou had'st thy Noon-tide past) 
And I remember must in tears, 
Thou scarce had'st seen so many years 
As Day tells houres. By thy deer Sun, 
My love and fortune first did run: 
But thou wilt never more appear 
Folded within my Hemisphear, 
Since both thy light and motion 
Like a fled Star is fall'n and gon. 
And twixt me and my soules dear wish 
The earth now interposed is, 
Which such a strange eclipse doth make, 
As ne're was read in Almanake. 

I could allow thee, for a time, 
To darken me and my sad Clime, 



2 4 



Henry King 

Were it a month, a year, or ten, 
I would thy exile live till then: 
And all that space my mirth adjourn. 
So thou wouldst promise to return: 
And putting off thy ashy shrowd, 
At length disperse this sorrows cloud. 

But woe is me! the longest date 
Too narrow is to calculate 
These empty hopes: never shall I 
Be so much blest as to descry 
A glimpse of thee, till that day come, 
Which shall the earth to cinders doome, 
And a fierce Feaver must calcine 
The body of this world, like thine, 
My Little World ! That fit of fire 
Once off, our bodies shall aspire 
To our soules bliss: then we shall rise, 
And view our selves with cleerer eyes 
In that calm Region, where no night 
Can hide us from each others sight. 

Mean time, thou hast her, earth ; much good 
May my harm do thee. Since it stood 
With Heavens will, I might not call 
Her longer mine, — I give thee all 



*5 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

My short-liv'd right and interest 
In her, whom living I lov'd best: 
With a most free and bounteous grief, 
I give thee, what I could not keep. 
Be kind to her, and prethee look 
Thou write into thy Dooms-day book 
Each parcell of this Rarity, 
Which in thy Casket shrin'd doth ly: 
See that thou make thy reck'ning streight, 
And yield her back again by weight; 
For thou must audit on thy trust 
Each graine and atome of this dust, 
As thou wilt answer Him that lent, 
Not gave thee, my dear Monument. 
So close the ground, and 'bout her shade 
Black curtains draw; — my Bride is laid. 

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed, 

Never to be disquieted ! 

My last good night ! Thou wilt not wake, 

Till I thy fate shall overtake: 

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves; and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy Tomb. 

Stay for me there; I will not faile 

To meet thee in that hollow Vale: 

26 



Henry King 



And think not much of my delay: 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree, 

And ev'ry houre a step towards thee. 

At night, when I betake to rest, 

Next morn I rise neerer my West 

Of life, almost by eight houres saile _ 

Then when sleep breath'd his drowsie gale. 

Thus from the Sun my Bottom stears. 

And my dayes Compass downward bears: 

Nor labour I to stemme the tide, 

Through which to Thee I swiftly glide. 

T is true, with shame and grief I yield, 

Thou, like the Vann, first took'st the field, 

And gotten hast the vidtory, 

In thus adventuring to dy 

Before me, whose more years might crave 

A just precedence in the grave. 

But heark ! My Pulse, like a soft Drum, 

Beats my approch, tells Thee I come; 

And slow howere my marches be, 

I shall at last sit down by Thee. 



*7 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

The thought of this bids me go on, 

And wait my dissolution 

With hope and comfort. Deaf, (forgive 

The crime,) I am content to live 

Divided, with but half a heart, 

Till we shall meet and never part. 



Francis Quarles (1592-1644) 



Mors Tua 

CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast ? 
Or he be strong, that aiery breath can cast ? 
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live ? 
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ? 
Can he be young, that 's feeble, weak and wan ? 

So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is Man. 
So fair is Man, that Death (a parting blast) 
Blasts his fair flow'r, and makes him Earth at last; 
So strong is Man, that with a gasping breath 
He totters, and bequeaths his strength to Death; 
So wise is Man, that if with Death he strive, 
His wisdom cannot teach him how to live; 
So rich is Man, that (all his debts b'ing paid) 
His wealth 's the winding sheet wherein he 's laid; 
28 



Francis Quarles 

So young is Man, that (broke with Care and Sorrow) 
He 's old enough to day, to die to-morrow: 
Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five-foot long ? 
TV art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor 
young. 

My trust is in the Cross 

CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast. 
And fix my rambling love ? 
Can my affections find out nothing best, 
But still and still remove ? 
Has earth no mercy ? Will no ark of rest 

Receive my restless dove ? 
Is there no good, than which there *s nothing higher, 

To bless my full desire 
With joys that never change: with joys that ne'er expire ? 

I wanted wealth; and, at my dear request. 

Earth lent a quick supply: 
I wanted mirth, to charm my sullen breast; 

And who more brisk than I ? 
I wanted fame, to glorify the rest: 

My fame flew eagle-high; 
My joy not fully ripe, but all decay'd, 

Wealth vanish'd like a shade; 
My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade* 



29 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

The world 's an ocean, hurried to and fro 

With ev'ry blast of passion: 
Her lustful streams, when either ebb or flow, 

Are tides of man's vexation: 
They alter daily, and they daily grow 

The worse by alteration: 
The earth 's a cask full tunn'd, yet wanting measure; 

Her precious wine is pleasure; 
Her yeast is honour's puff; her lees are worldly treasure. 

My trust is in the Cross: let beauty flag 

Her loose, her wanton sail; 
Let count'nance-gilding honour cease to brag 

In courtly terms, and vail; 
Let ditch-bred wealth henceforth forget to wag 

Her base, though golden, tail; 
False beauty's conquest is but real loss. 

And wealth but golden dross; 
Best honour's but a blast: my trust is in the Cross. 

My trust is in the Cross; there lies my rest: 

My fast, my sole delight: 
Let cold-mouth'd Boreas, or the hot-mouth'd East, 

Blow till they burst with spite: 
Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, 

And join their twisted might; 



3° 



George Herbert 

Let show'rs of thunderbolts dart down and wound me, 

And troops of fiends surround me, 
All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound 
me. 

Good Night 

CLOSE now thine eyes, and rest secure: 
Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure; 
He that loves thee, He that keeps 
And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps. 
The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breast 
Has only peace, has only rest; 
The music and the mirth of kings 
Are all but very discords, when she sings; 

Then close thine eyes and rest secure; 
No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure. 



George Herbert O593-1633) 



1 



The Pilgrimage 

TRAVELL'D on, seeing the hill, where, lay 
My expectation. 
A long it was and weary way: 
The gloomy cave of Desperation 

3* 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

I left on th* one, and on the other side 
The rock of Pride. 

And so I came to Phansie's meadow, strow'd 
With many a flower: 
Fain would I here have made abode, 
But I was quicken'd by my hour. 
So to Care's copse I came, and there got through 
With much ado. 

That led me to the wild of Passion, which 
Some call the wold; 
A wasted place, but sometimes rich. 
Here I was robb'd of all my gold. 
Save one good angel, which a friend had tied 
Close to my side. 

At length I got unto the gladsome hill, 
Where lay my hope, 
Where lay my heart; and climbing still, 
When I had gain'd the brow and top, 
A lake of brackish waters on the ground 
Was all I found. 

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting 
Of swarming fears, 
I fell and cried, 'Alas, my King, 
Can both the way and end be tears?' 

3 2 



George Herbert 

Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived 
I was deceived. 

My hill was further: so I flung away, 
Yet heard a cry 
Just as I went, ' None goes that way 
And lives.* 'If that be all/ said I, 
'After so foul a journey death is fair, 
And but a chair.' 

Sunday 

ODAY most calm, most bright, 
The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 
Th' indorsement of supreme delight. 
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood: 
The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay: 
The week were dark, but for thy light; 
Thy torch doth show the way. 

The other days and thou 
Make up one man, whose face thou art, 
Knocking at Heaven with thy brow: 
The working days are the back part; 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoop and bow. 
Till thy release appear. 



33 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Man had straight forward gone 
To endless death; but thou dost pull 
And turn us round to look on One, 
Whom, if we were not very dull, 
We could not choose but look on still, 
Since there is no place so alone. 
The which He doth not fill ! 

Sundays the pillars are 
On which HeavVs palace arched lies: 
The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities: 
They are the fruitful beds and borders 
Of God's rich garden; that is bare. 
Which parts their ranks and orders. 

The Sundays of man's life. 
Threaded together on Time's string. 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King: 
On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 
More plentiful than hope. 

This day my Saviour rose, 
And did enclose this light for His; 
That, as each beast his manger knows, 
Man might not of his fodder miss : 

34 



George Herbert 

Christ hath took in this piece of ground. 
And made a garden there, for those 
Who want herbs for their wound. 

The rest of our Creation 

Our great Redeemer did remove 

With the same shake, which at His passion 

Did th* earth, and all things with it, move: 

As Samson bore the doors away, 

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, 

And did unhinge that day. 

The brightness of that day 
We sullied by our foul offence ; 
Wherefore that robe we cast away. 
Having a new at His expense, 
Whose drops of blood paid the full price 
That was required to make us gay, 
And fit for Paradise. 

Thou art a day of mirth : 

And where the week-days trail on ground, 

Thy flight is higher, as thy birth. 

O, let me take thee at the bound, 

Leaping with thee from sev'n to sev'n, 

Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, 

Fly hand in hand to heav'n ! 



35 



The Pilgrim's Staff 
Life 

I MADE a posy while the day fan by: 
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
My life within this band. 
But time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
By noon most cunningly did steal away 
And wither'd in my hand. 

My hand was next to them, and then my heart ; 
I took, without more thinking, in good part 

Time's gentle admonition, 
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 

Yet sug'ring the suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, 
Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell and ornament, 

And after death for cures ; 
I follow straight without complaints or grief, 
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 

It be as short as yours. 

Peace 

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave. 
Let me once know. 
I sought thee in a secret cave, 

36 



George Herbert 

And ask'd, if Peace were there. 
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No : 
Go seek elsewhere. 

I did ; and going did a rainbow note : 

Surely, thought I, 
This is the lace of Peace's coat : 

I will search out the matter, 
But while I look'd, the clouds immediately 

Did break and scatter. 

Then went I into a garden, and did spy 

A gallant flower, 
The Crown Imperial : Sure, said I, 

Peace at the root must dwell ; 
But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour 

What show'd so well. 

At length I met a rev'rend good old man : 

Whom when for Peace 
I did demand, he thus began : 

There was a Prince of old 
At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase 

Of flock and fold. 

He sweetly liv'd ; yet sweetness did not save 

His life from foes ; 
But after death out of His grave 

37 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat : 
Which many wondering at got some of those 
To plant and set. 

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse 

Through all the earth ; 
For they that taste it do rehearse, 

That virtue lies therein : 
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth 

By flight of sin. 

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, 

And grows for you : 
Make bread of it : and that repose, 

And peace which everywhere 
With so much earnestness you do pursue, 

Is only there. 

Love 

IOVE bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back, 
Guilty of dust and sin. 
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 
From my first entrance in, 
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, 
If I lack'd anything. 



38 



James Shirley 



4 A guest,' I answer'd, "worthy to be here;* 

Love said, 'You shall be he/ 
' I, the unkind, ungrateful ? Ah, my dear, 

I cannot look on Thee.' 
Love took my hand, and smiling, did reply, 

'Who made the eyes but I ?' 

'Truth, Lord, but I have marrM them; let my shame 

Co where it doth deserve/ 
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame ? ' 

'My dear, then I will serve.' 
'You must sit down/ says Love, 'and taste my meat.' 

So I did sit and eat. 



James Shirley (1594-1666) 



Song of Nuns 

OFLY, my Soul! what hangs upon 
Thy drooping wings, 
And weighs them down 
With love of gaudy mortal things ? 

The Sun is now i' the east ; each shade, 
As he doth rise, 

39 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Is shorter made, 
That earth may lessen to our eyes. 

Oh, be not careless then and play 

Until the star of peace 
Hide all his beams in dark recess. 
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way 
When all the shadows do increase. 



John Milton (1608-1674) 
Lycidas 

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Frienc 
unfortunately drowned in his passage from Ches 
ter on the Irish seas MDCXXXVII. And bj 
occasion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy 
then in their height. 

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sear 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
And with forc'd fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 



40 



■ 


j 






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V^S 




ml. />'>v&^» 




^ <v«* z*/"^ ' 




Z - j&uJy.*- 




,^..w. 


„, • „• .•■?, 1 



John Milton 

From tke engraving by W. N. Gardiner 



i 



John Milton 



Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his wat'ry bear 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn ; 
And as he passes turn, 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. 
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. 

Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn. 
We drove afield, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the Star that rose, at ev'ning, bright, 
Toward HeavVs descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
4* 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Temper'd to th* oaten flute ; 
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long, 
And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. 

But O, the heavy change, now thou art gon, 
Now thou art gon, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. 
With wilde thyme and the gadding vine o'regrown. 
And all their echoes mourn. 
The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft layes. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 
Or taint- worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o're the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lye, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream. 
Ay me, I fondly dream ! 

Had ye bin there, for what could that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself, for her inchanting son 
42 



--- 



John Milton 



Whom universal Nature did lament, 
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His goary visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, 
And stridtly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise/ 
Phcrbus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to th* world, nor in broad rumour lies. 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each Attd, 
Of so much fame in Heav'n expedt thy meed.' 

Of fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, 
43 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

That strain I heard was of a higher mood. 

But now my oate proceeds, 

And listens to the herald of the sea. 

That came in Neptune's plea : 

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds, 

What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? 

And question'd every gust of rugged wings 

That blows from off each beaked promontory. 

They knew not of his story; 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd : 

The air was calm, and on the level brine 

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 

It was that fatall and perfidious bark. 

Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, 
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 
'Ah! who hath reft* (quoth he) 'my dearest pledge?' 
Last came and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keyes he bore, of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) 
He shook his mitr'd locks, and stern bespake : 
'How well could I have spar'd for thee young swain, 
44 



John Milton 



Anow of such as fof their bellies' sake 

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ? 

Of other care they little reck'ning make, 

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 

Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A sheephook, or have learn'd ought else the least 

That to the faithfull herdsman's art belongs ! 

What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped ; 

And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread, 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing sti. 

But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 

Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bels, and flouerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the milde whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, 
That on the green terf suck the honied showres, 
45 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe and pale gessamine, 
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jeat. 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; 
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies. 
For so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurl'd ; 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide, 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep' st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth ; 
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floar. 

4 6 



John Milton 



So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 

Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. 

Where, other groves and other streams along, 

With nedtar pure his oozy locks he laves ; 

And hears the unexpressive nuptiall song, 

In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. 

There entertain him all the saints above, 

In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 

That sing, and singing in their glory move. 

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more : 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 

To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the okes and rills, 
While the still morn went out with sandals grey; 
He touched the tender tops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay. 
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay; 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blew: 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 

47 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

On the Morning of Christ 7 
Nativity 

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 
Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
For so the holy sages once did sing, 
That He our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious Form, that light unsufferable, 

And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 

Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside ; and, here with us to be, 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 

Afford a present to the Infant God ? 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 

To welcome Him to this His new abode, 

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? 



4 8 



Richard Crashaw 

See how from far upon the eastern road 

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet ! 

Oh run, prevent them with thy humble ode. 

And lay it lowly at His blessed feet ; 

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the angel quire, 

From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 



Richard Crashaw (1613-1649) 



A Song 



LORD, when the sense of Thy sweet grace 
Sends up my soul to seek Thy face, 
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire, 
I die in Love's delicious fire. 

O Love, I am thy sacrifice ; 
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes ; 
Still shine on me, fair suns ! that I 
Still may behold, though still I die ; 

Though still I die, I live again, 
Still longing so to be still slain ; 
So gainful is such loss of breath, 
I die e'en in desire of death. 

49 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Still live in me this longing strife 
Of living death and dying life ; 
For while Thou sweetly slayest me. 
Dead to myself, I live in Thee. 

Upon the Book and Pitture of 

the Seraphical Saint 

Teresa 

OTHOU undaunted daughter of desires ! 
By all thy dower of lights and fires : 
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove ; 
By all thy lives and deaths of love ; 
By thy large draughts of intellectual day, 
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they ; 
By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, 
By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire : 
By the full kingdom of that final kiss 
That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His ; 
By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him 
(Fair sister of the seraphim !) : 
By all of Him we have in thee ; 
Leave nothing of myself in me. 
Let me so read thy life, that I 
Unto all life of mine may die ! 



5° 




Jeremy Taylor 

Bishop of Down 

From the engraving by Pierre Lombart 

from his own design from life 



Jeremy Taylor 



Jeremy Taylor^ Bishop of Down 
and Connor (1613-1667) 

Hymn for Advent 

LORD, come away; 
Why dost Thou stay? 
Thy road is ready; and Thy paths, made straight. 
With longing expectation wait 
The consecration of Thy beauteous feet. 
Ride on triumphantly : Behold, we lay 
Our lusts and proud wills in Thy way. 

Hosanna ! Welcome, to our hearts ! Lord, here 
Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear 
As that of Sion ; and as full of sin : 
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein : 
Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor ; 
Crucify them, that they may never more 
Profane that holy place 
Where Thou hast chose to set Thy face. 
And then, if our stiff tongues shall be 
Mute in the praises of Thy Deity, 

The stones out of the temple wall 
Shall cry aloud, and call 
Hosanna ! and Thy glorious footsteps greet. 
5* 



The Pilgrim's Staff 



Andrew Marvel (1621-1678) 

Song of the Emigrants in 
Bermuda 

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along 
The listening winds received this song ; 
'What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown. 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage ; 
He gave us this eternal Spring 
Which here enamels everything, 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 

5* 



Andrew Marvel 

Jewels mofe rich than Ormus shows : 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet ; 
But apples plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon He stores the land : 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound His name. 
O let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay ! ' 
— Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 



53 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Henry Vaughan (1621-1693) 
/ saw Eternity the other night 

I SAW Eternity the other night, 
Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 
All calm, as it was bright ; 
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, 

Driven by the spheres, 
Like a vast shadow moved ; In which the world 
And all her train were hurl'd. 

The Retreat 

HAPPY those early days, when I 
Shined in my Angel-infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a white celestial thought ; 
When yet I had not walk'd above 
A mile or two from my first Love, 
And looking back — at that short space — 
Could see a glimpse of His bright face: — 
When on some gilded cloud, or flower, 

54 



Henry Vaughan 

My gazing soul would dwell an hour. 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity : — 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound, 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
But felt through all this fleshly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 

O how I long to travel back, 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plain 
Where first I left my glorious train ; 
From whence the enlighten'd spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm-trees. 
But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move ; 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 



55 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

/ walkd the other day, to 
spend my hour 

IWALK'D the other day, to spend my hour, 
Into a field, 
Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield 
A gallant flower; 
But Winter now had ruffled all the bowel 
And curious store, 
I knew there heretofore. 

Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer 

I' th' face of things, 
Thought with myself, there might be other springs 

Besides this here, 
Which, like cold friends, stts us but once a year ; 

And so the flower 
Might have some other bower. 

Then taking up what I could nearest spy, 

I digg'd about 
That place where I had seen him to grow out ; 

And by and by 
I saw the warm Recluse alone to lie. 

Where fresh and green 
He lived of us unseen. 



56 



Henry Vaughan 

Many a question intricate and rare 

Did I there strow; 
But all I could extort was, that he now 

Did there repair 
Such losses as befell him in this air, 

And would ere long 
Come forth most fair and young. 

This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head ; 

And stung with fear 
Of my own frailty, dropp'd down many a tear 

Upon his bed ; 
Then sighing whisper'd • Happy are the dead ! 

What peace doth now 
Rock him asleep below!' 

And yet, how few believe such dodtrine springs 

From a poor root, 
Which all the Winter sleeps here underfoot. 

And hath no wings 
To raise it to the truth and light of things ; 

But is still trod 
By every wandering clod. 

— O Thou ! Whose Spirit did at first inflame 

And warm the dead, 
And by a sacred incubation, fed 

With life this frame, 

57 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Which once had neither being, form, nor name ; 
Grant I may so 
Thy steps track here below, 

That in these Masques and shadows, I may see 

Thy sacred way; 
And by those hid ascents climb to that day, 

Which breaks from Thee, 
Who art in all things, though invisibly : — 

Shew me Thy peace, 
Thy mercy, love, and ease. 

When Night comes 

WHEN Night comes, list thy dttis : make plain 
the way 
Twixt heaven and thee ; block it not with de- 
lays : 
But perfedt all before thou sleep'st : then say 
There 's one sun more strung on my Bead of days. 
What *s good score up for joy ; the bad, well scann'd, 
Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. 



58 



John Bunyan 



John Bunyan (1628-1688) 

The Shepherd Boy sings in the 
Valley of Humiliation 



H 



E that is down needs fear no fall. 

He that is low, no pride ; 
He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his guide. 



I am content with what I have. 

Little be it or much : 
And, Lord, contentment still I crave, 

Because Thou savest such. 

Fullness to such a burden is 

That go on pilgrimage : 
Here little, and hereafter bliss, 

Is best from age to age. 



59 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath 
and Wells (1637-1711) 

Now 

THE Past can be no more — 
Whose misemploying I deplore : 
The Future is to me 
An absolute uncertainty : 
The Now, which will not with me stay, 
Within a second flies away. 

I heard God often say, 
Now, of salvation is the day, — 
But turn'd from heaven my view, 
I still had something else to do ; 
Till God a dream instructive sent. 
To warn me timely to repent. 

Methought Death, with his dart, 

Had mortally transfix'd my heart; 

And devils round about, 

To seize my spirit flying out, 

Cried — 'Now, of which you took no care. 

Is turned to Never and despair ! ' 

60 



Nahum Tate 

I gave a sudden start, 

And waked, with Newer in my heart : 

Still I that Never felt, 
Never upon my spirit dwelt; — 
A thousand thanks to God I paid, 
That my sad Never was delay'd. 



Nahum Tate (1652-1715) 

While shepherds watch' d their 
flocks by night 

WHILE shepherds watch'd their flocks by night 
All seated on the ground, 
The Angel of the Lord came down, 
And glory shone around. 

'Fear not/ said he; (for mighty dread 
Had seized their troubled mind ;) 
'Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind. 

'To you, in David's town, this day 
Is born of David's line 
The Saviour, Who is CHRIST the Lord; 
And this shall be the sign : 
61 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

'The heavenly Babe you there shall find 
To human view displayed, 
All meanly wrapt in swathing-bands. 
And in a manger laid.' 

Thus spake the Seraph ; and forthwith 
Appear'd a shining throng 
Of Angels, praising Cod, and thus 
Address'd their joyful song : — 

'All glory be to God on high, 

And to the earth be peace ; 

Good-will henceforth from Heaven to men 

Begin, and never cease ! ' 



Joseph Addison (1672-1719) 



Hymn 



THE spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 
Th' unwearied Sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power display; 
62 










Joseph Addison 

From the mezzotint by John Simon 

after the painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller 



Joseph Addison 

And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale : 
And nightly to the listening Earth 
Repeats the story of her birth : 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing as they shine, 
' The Hand that made us is divine.* 

The Lord my pasture shall 
prepare 

HE Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care : 
His presence shall my wants supply, 

63 



T 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
My noonday walks He shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 
To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps He leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread, 
With gloomy horrors overspread, 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For Thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 



Isaac Warn (1674-1748) 
Before Jehovah's awful throne 

BEFORE Jehovah's awful throne, 
Ye nations, bow with sacred joy; 
Know that the Lord is God alone, 
He can create, and He destroy. 

64 




Isaac Watts, D.D. 
From the painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller 



Isaac Watts 

His sov'reign power, without our aid, 
Made us of clay, and formed us men ; 
And when like wandering sheep we stray 'd, 
He brought us to His fold again. 

We '11 crowd Thy gates with thankful songs. 
High as the heavens our voices raise ; 
And earth, with her ten thousand tongues. 
Shall fill Thy courts with sounding praise. 

Wide as the world is Thy command, 
Vast as eternity Thy love ; 
Firm as a rock Thy truth must stand, 
When rolling years shall cease to move. 

O God) our help in ages past 

OCOD, our help in ages past, 
Our hope for years to come, 
Our shelter from the stormy blast. 
And our eternal home : 

Under the shadow of Thy Throne 
Thy saints have dwelt secure ; 
Sufficient is Thine arm alone, 
And our defence is sure. 



65 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Before the hills in order stood, 
Or earth received her frame, 
From everlasting Thou art God, 
To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sight 
Are like an evening gone ; 
Short as the watch that ends the night 
Before the rising sun. 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, 
Bears all its sons away ; 
They fly forgotten, as a dream 
Dies at the opening day. 

Our Cod, our help in ages past ; 
Our hope for years to come ; 
Be Thou our guard while troubles last, 
And our eternal home ! 



I sing tti almighty power of God 

I SING th' almighty power of God, 
That made the mountains rise. 
That spread the flowing seas abroad, 
And built the lofty skies. 



66 



Isaac Watts 

I sing the wisdom that ordain'd 
The sun to rule the day: 
The moon shines full at His command. 
And all the stars obey. 

I sing the goodness of the Lord 
That filled the earth with food : 
He formed the creatures with His word, 
And then pronounced them good. 

Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed, 
Where'er I turn my eye ; 
If I survey the ground I tread, 
Or gaze upon the sky! 

There *s not a plant or flower below, 
But makes Thy glories known : 
And clouds arise, and tempests blow, 
By order from Thy throne. 

Creatures, as numerous as they be, 
Are subjetf to Thy care ; 
There 's not a place where we can flee 
But God is present there. 

In Heaven He shines with beams of love. 
With wrath in hell beneath ; 
T is on His earth I stand and move. 
And *t is His air I breathe. 

67 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

His hand is my perpetual guard : 
He keeps me with His eye : 
Why should I then forget the Lord, 
Who is for ever nigh ? 

My Shepherd will supply my need 

MY Shepherd will supply my need, 
Jehovah is His name ; 
In pastures fresh He makes me feed 
Beside the living stream. 

He brings my wandering spirit back 
When I forsake His ways, 
And leads me, for His mercy's sake, 
In paths of truth and grace. 

When I walk through the shades of death, 
Thy presence is my stay: 
A word of Thy supporting breath 
Drives all my fears away. 

Thy hand, in spite of all my foes, 
Doth still my table spread : 
My cup with blessings overflows, 
Thine oil anoints my head. 

The sure provisions of my God 
Attend me all my days ; 
68 



Isaac Watts 

O may Thy house be mine abode. 
And all my work be praise ! 

There would I find a settled rest, 
While others go and come ; 
No more a stranger or a guest, 
But like a child at home. 

Plunged in a gulf of dark despair 

PLUNGED in a gulf of dark despair 
We wretched sinners lay, 
Without one cheerful beam of hope, 
Or spark of glimmering day. 

With pitying eyes the Prince of Grace 
Beheld our helpless grief : 
He saw, and oh ! amazing love ! 
He ran to our relief. 

Down from the shining seats above 
With joyful haste He fled : 
Entered the grave in mortal flesh. 
And dwelt among the dead. 

Oh ! for this love, let rocks and hills 
Their lasting silence break, 
And all harmonious human tongues 
The Saviour's praises speak ! 

6 9 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Angels, assist ouf mighty joys ; 
Strike all your harps of gold ! 
But, when you raise your highest notes. 
His love can ne'er be told. 

There is a land of pure delight 

THERE is a land of pure delight, 
Where saints immortal reign, 
Infinite day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides, 
And never withering flowers ; 
Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dress'd in living green : 
So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 
While Jordan roll'd between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 
To cross this narrow sea, 
And linger shivering on the brink, 
And fear to launch away. 

O ! could we make our doubts remove, 
These gloomy thoughts that rise, 
70 



Isaac Watts 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes ; 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 
And view the landscape o'er : 
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, 
Should fright us from the shore. 

Am I a soldier of the Cross 

1M I a soldier of the Cross, 
r\ A follower of the Lamb ? 

And shall I fear to own His cause. 
Or blush to speak His name ? 

Must I be carried to the skies 

On flowery beds of ease, 
While others fought to win the prize, 

And sailed through bloody seas ? 

Are there no foes for me to face ? 

Must I not stem the flood ? 
Is this vile world a friend to grace. 

To help me on to Cod ? 

Sure I must fight if I would reign ; 

Increase my courage, Lord : 
I '11 bear the cross, endure the pain, 

Supported by Thy word. 

7* 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Thy saints, in all this glorious war. 
Shall conquer, though they die : 

They view the triumph from afar. 
And seize it with their eye. 

When that illustrious day shall rise, 

And all Thy armies shine 
In robes of victory through the skies, 

The glory shall be thine. 



Alexander Pope (1688-1744) 
The Dying Christian to his Soul 

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame \ 
Quit, O quit this mortal frame : 
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 
O the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark I they whisper: angels say, 
Sister Spirit, come away! 
What is this absorbs me quite ? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 

7* 




Alexander Pope 

From the engraving by James Stow 

after the painting by Arthur Pond 



Philip Doddridge 

Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring ! 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly! 
O Grave ! where is thy vidory? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 



Philip Doddridge (702-1751) 



Sursum 

YE golden lamps of Heaven, farewell, 
With all your feeble light ; 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, 
Pale empress of the night. 

And thou, refulgent orb of day, 

In brighter flames array *d ; 

My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 
Of my Divine abode, 

73 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

The pavement of those heavenly courts 
Where I shall reign with God. 

The Father of eternal light 
Shall there His beams display; 
Nor shall one moment's darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 
Nor the meridian sun decline 
Amidst those brighter skies. 



John Wesley (703-1791) 
My Story 

k ND can it be, that I should gain 
f\ An interest in the Saviour's blood ? 

Died He for me, who caus'd His pain, 
For me, who Him to death pursued ? 
Amazing Love ! how can it be. 
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me ? 

'T is mystery all ! Th' Immortal dies ! 
Who can explore His strange design ? 

74 




The Revd. John Wesley, A.M. 

From the engraving by J. Thomas 

after the painting by ). Jackson 



John Wesley 

In vain the first-born seraph tries 
To sound the depths of Love Divine. 
T is mercy all ! Let earth adore ! 
Let angel minds enquire no more ! 

He left His Father's throne above, 
(So free, so infinite His grace :) 
Emptied Himself of all but love. 
And bled for Adam's helpless race. 
T is mercy all, immense and free ! 
For O, my God ! it found out me I 

Long my imprison'd spirit lay, 
Fast bound in sin and nature's night ; 
Thine eye diffus'd a quickening ray: 
I woke; the dungeon flam'd with light: 
My chains fell off, my heart was free, 
I rose, went forth, and follow'd Thee I 

Still the small inward voice I hear. 

That whispers all my sins forgiven : 

Still the atoning Blood is near, 

That quench'd the wrath of hostile Heaven: 

I feel the life His wounds impart; 

I feel my Saviour in my heart. 

No condemnation now I dread ; 
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine ! 

75 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Alive in Him, my living Head, 

And cloth'd in righteousness Divine, 

Bold I approach th' Eternal Throne, 

And claim the crown, through Christ my own. 

Thou hidden love of God 

THOU hidden love of God, whose height, 
Whose depth unfathomed no man knows : 
I see from far Thy beauteous light, 
Inly I sigh for Thy repose : 
My heart is pained, nor can it be 
At rest, till it find rest in Thee* 

Is there a thing beneath the sun 

That strives with Thee my heart to share ? 
Ah ! tear it thence, and reign alone, 

The Lord of every motion there. 
Then shall my heart from earth be free, 
When it hath found repose in Thee. 

Oh, hide this self from me, that I 

No more, but Christ in me, may live ! 

My base affedtions crucify, 

Nor let one favourite sin survive ; 

In all things nothing may I see. 

Nothing desire, or seek, but Thee. 

76 



Charles Wesley 

Each moment draws from earth away 
My heart, that lowly waits Thy call I 

Speak to my inmost soul, and say 
I am thy love, thy God, thy all ! 

To feel Thy power, to hear Thy voice, 

To taste Thy love, be all my choice ! 

(Translated from G. Tcrstcegen. 1729) 



Charles Wesley (1708-1788) 
Jesu^ Lover of my soul 

)ESU, Lover of my soul, 
Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
While the nearer waters roll. 
While the tempest still is high ; 
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
Till the storm of life is past, 
Safe into the haven guide, 
O receive my soul at last! 

Other refuge have I none : 
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone. 
Still support and comfort me ! 

77 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

All my trust on Thee is stay'd, 
All my help from Thee I bring : 
Cover my defenceless head 
With the shadow of Thy wing ! 

Wilt Thou not regard my call ? 
Wilt Thou not accept my prayer ? 
Lof I sink, I faint, I fall— 
Lo f on Thee I cast my care ! 
Reach me out Thy gracious hand : 
While I of Thy strength receive, 
Hoping against hope I stand, 
Dying, and behold I live ! 

Plenteous grace with Thee is found, 
Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound : 
Make and keep me pure within : — 
Thou of Life the Fountain art, 
Freely let me take of Thee : 
Spring Thou up within my heart, — 
Rise to all eternity ! 



78 




Charles Wesley 

From the engraving by T. A. Dean 

" From an Original Painting 
in the possession of the Family" 



Charles Wesley 
O for a thousand tongues to sing 

OFOR a thousand tongues to sing 
My dear Redeemer's praise. 
The glories of my Cod and King, 
The triumphs of His grace ! 

My gracious Master and my God, 
Assist me to proclaim, 
To spread, through all the earth abroad. 
The honours of Thy Name. 

Jesus, the Name that charms our fears, 
That bids our sorrows cease : 
T is music in the sinner's ears, 
T is life, and health, and peace ! 

He speaks, and, listening to His voice, 
New life the dead receive ; 
The mournful, broken hearts rejoice, 
The humble poor believe. 

Hear Him, ye deaf ; His praise, ye dumb, 
Your loosened tongues employ; 
Ye blind, behold your Saviour come, 
And leap, ye lame, for joy ! 



79 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

John Newton (1725-1807) 
A Vision of Life in Death 

IN evil long I took delight, 
Unawed by shame or fear. 
Till a new objedt struck my sight, 
And stopp'd my wild career ; 
I saw One hanging on a Tree 
In agonies and Mood, 
Who fix'd His languid eyes on me, 
As near His Cross I stood. 

Sure never till my latest breath 

Can I forget that look : 

It seem'd to charge me with His death, 

Though not a word He spoke : 

My conscience felt and own'd the guilt, 

And plunged me in despair; 

I saw my sins His Blood had spilt, 

And help'd to nail Him there. 

Alas ! I knew not what I did I 
But now my tears are vain : 



80 



John Newton 

Where shall my trembling soul be hid? 

For I the Lord have slain ! 

— A second look He gave, which said, 

'I freely all forgive: 

This Blood is for thy ransom paid ; 

I die, that thou may'st live.' 

Thus, while His death my sin displays 

In all its blackest hue, 

Such is the mystery of grace. 

It seals my pardon too. 

With pleasing grief, and mournful joy. 

My spirit now is fill'd, 

That I should such a life destroy, — 

YetlivebyHimlkiU'd! 

How sweet the Name of Jesus 
sounds 

HOW sweet the Name of Jesus sounds 
In a believer's ear ! 

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds. 
And drives away his fear ! 

It makes the wounded spirit whole, 
And calms the troubled breast ; 



81 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

T is manna to the hungry soul, 
And to the weary rest. 

Dear Name ! the rock on which I build, 

My shield and hiding-place, 
My never-failing treasury, fill'd 
With boundless stores of grace. 

By Thee my prayers acceptance gain, 
Although with sin defiled ; 
Satan accuses me in vain. 
And I am owned a child. 

Jesus, my Shepherd, Husband, Friend, 
My Prophet, Priest, and King, 
My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, 
Accept the praise I bring. 

Weak is the effort of my heart, 
And cold my warmest thought ; 
But, when I see Thee as Thou art, 
I '11 praise Thee as I ought. 

Till then, I would Thy love proclaim 
With every fleeting breath ; 
And may the music of Thy Name 
Refresh my soul in death ! 



82 



William Cowper 



William Cowper (1731-1800) 
O for a closer walk with God 

OFOR a closer walk with God, 
A calm and heavenly frame ! 
A light to shine upon the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

Where is the blessedness I knew 
When first I saw the Lord ? 
Where is the soul-refreshing view 
Of Jesus and His word ? 

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed ! 
How sweet their memory still ! 
But they have left an aching void 
The world can never fill. 

Return, O holy Dove ! return, 
Sweet messenger of rest ! 
I hate the sins that made Thee mourn. 
And drove Thee from my breast. 

The dearest idol I have known, 
Whate'er that idol be, 

83 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Help me to tear it from Thy throne. 
And worship only Thee ! 

So shall my walk be close with God, 
Calm and serene my frame : 
So purer light shall mark the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

Far from the worlds O Lord, 

I flee 

FAR from the world, O Lord, I flee. 
From strife and tumult far ; 
From scenes where Satan wages still 
His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade, 
With prayer and praise agree ; 
And seem by Thy sweet bounty made 
For those who follow Thee. 

There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul, 
And grace her mean abode, 
Oh ! with what peace, and joy, and love, 
She communes with her Cod ! 

There, like the nightingale, she pours 
Her solitary lays ; 

8 4 



William Cowper 

Nor asks a witness of her song, 
Nof thirsts for human praise. 

Author and guardian of my life, 
Sweet source of light divine, 
And — all harmonious names in one — 
My Saviour ! Thou art mine ! 

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, 
A boundless, endless store, 
Shall echo through the realms above, 
When time shall be no more. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

GOD moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform ; 
He plants His footsteps in the sea, 
And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill. 
He treasures up His bright designs 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ; 
The clouds ye so much dread 



85 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
But trust Him for His grace ; 

Behind a frowning Providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
And scan His work in vain : 

God is His own interpreter. 
And He will make it plain. 



Augustus Montague Toplady 

(i 74 o-i 77 8) 

Rock of Ages ', cleft for me 



R 



OCK of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee I 
Let the water and the blood 
86 



Augustus Montague Toplady 

From Thy riven side which flow'd 

Be of sin the double cure, 

Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labours of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears for ever flow, 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring ; 
Simply to Thy Cross I cling ; 
Naked, come to Thee for dress ; 
Helpless, look to Thee for grace : 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly; 
Wash me. Saviour, or I dit I 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eyestrings break in death, 
When I soar through traces unknown. 
See Thee on Thy Judgment-throne ; 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee ! 



87 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Anna Lcetitia Barbau/d (1743-1825) 



The Call 

k WAKE, my soul I lift up thine eyes, 
j\ See where thy foes against thee rise, 

In long array, a numerous host : 
Awake, my soul ! or thou art lost. 

Here giant Danger threatening stands, 
Mustering his pale terrific bands ; 
There pleasure's silken banners spread, 
And willing souls are captive led. 

See where rebellious passions rage, 
And fierce desires and lusts engage ; 
The meanest foe of all the train 
Has thousands and ten thousands slain. 

Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground, 
Perils and snares beset thee round ; 
Beware of all, guard every part. 
But most, the traitor in thy heart. 

Come then, my soul, now learn to wield 
The weight of thine immortal shield ; 



William Blake 

Put on the armour from above 

Of heavenly truth and heavenly love. 

The terror and the charm repel, 
And powers of earth, and powers of hell ; 
The Man of Calvary triumphed here : 
Why should His faithful followers fear ? 



William Blake (1757-1827) 



The Lamb 

1ITTLE lamb, who made thee ? 
Dost thou know who made thee ? 
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead : 
Cave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, wooly, bright ; 
Cave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice ? 
Little lamb, who made thee ? 
Dost thou know Who made thee ? 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee:] 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee : 

89 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

He is called by thy name, 
For He calls Himself a Lamb. 
He is meek, and He is mild, 
He became a little child. 
I a child, and thou a lamb, 
We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 



James Montgomery (1771-1854) 
Prayer 

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, 
Utter'd, or unexpress'd ; 
The motion of a hidden fire 
That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burden of a sigh. 
The falling of a tear ; 
The upward glancing of an eye, 
When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
That infant lips can try: 

90 



James Montgomery 

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach 
The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
Returning from his ways : 
While Angels in their songs rejoice, 
And cry, Behold, he prays ! 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 
The Christian's native air ; 
His watch-word at the gates of death ; 
He enters Heaven with prayer. 

The saints, in prayer, appear as one 
In word, and itti, and mind ; 
While with the Father and the Son 
Sweet fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made on earth, alone : 
The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
And Jesus, on the eternal Throne, 
For mourners intercedes. 

O Thou, by Whom we come to Cod, 
The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod : 
Lord I teach us how to pray. 



9* 



The Pilgrim's Staff 
Friend after friend departs 

FRIEND after friend departs: 
Who hath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts, 
That finds not here an end : 
Were this frail world our only rest, 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time. 
Beyond this vale of death, 
There surely is some blessed clime, 
Where life is not a breath. 
Nor life's affections transient fire. 
Whose sparks fly upwards to expire. 

There is a world above, 
Where parting is unknown ; 
A whole eternity of love, 
Form'd for the good alone : 
And faith beholds the dying here 
Translated to that happier sphere. 

Thus star by star declines 

Till all are pass'd away, 

As morning high and higher shines 

To pure and perfedt day; 



9 2 



Thomas Moore 

Nof sink those stars in empty night : 
They hide themselves in heaven's own light. 



Thomas Moore (1779-1852) 
Come, ye disconsolate 

COME, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, 
Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel ; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your 
anguish — 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

Joy of the desolate, light of the straying, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure. 

Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying, 
'Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.' 

Go, ask the infidel what boon he brings us, 
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, 

Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us — 
'Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal.' 



93 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Reginald Heber^ Bishop of 
Calcutta (1783-1826) 

Brightest and best of the Sons 
of the morning! 

BRIGHTEST and best of the Sons of the morning ! 
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining. 
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall : 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, 
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all ! 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, 
Odours of Edom and offerings divine ? 
Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, 
Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine ? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation ; 
Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

94 



mtm 




The Rt. Revd. Reginald Heber, D.D. 

Lord Bishop of Calcutta 

From the mezzotint by S. W. Reynolds 

•fter the painting by Thos. Phillips 



Reginald Heber 

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning ! 
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid ! 

An Evening Hymn 

GOD, that madest earth and heaven, 
Darkness and light ; 
Who the day for toil hast given, 
For rest the night : 
May Thine angel guards defend us ! 
Slumber sweet Thy mercy send us ! 
Holy dreams and hopes attend us. 
This live-long night ! 

Holy, ho/?/, holy, Lord God 
Almighty! 

HOLY, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee : 
Holy, holy, holy ! merciful and mighty 
God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 

Holy, holy, holy ! all the saints adore Thee, 

Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea ; 



95 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Cherubim and Seraphim falling down before Thee, 
Which wert and art and evermore shalt be f 

Holy, holy, holy ! though the darkness hide Thee, 
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see, 
Only Thou art holy, there is none beside Thee, 
Perf ed in power, in love, and purity ! 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! 

All Thy works shall praise Thy Name in earth and sky 

and sea : — 
Holy, holy, holy ! merciful and mighty I 
God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 

The Son of God goes forth to war 

THE Son of God goes forth to war, 
A kingly crown to gain ; 
His blood-red banner streams afar ; 
Who follows in His train ? 

Who best can drink His cup of woe, 
Triumphant over pain, 
Who patient bears His cross below, 
He follows in His train. 

The martyr, first, whose eagle eye 
Could pierce beyond the grave : 

96 



Reginald Heber 

Who saw his Master in the sky, 
And call'd on Him to save. 

Like Him, with pardon on his tongue. 
In midst of mortal pain. 
He prayed for them that did the wrong : 
Who follows in His train ? 

A glorious band, the chosen few. 

On whom the Spirit came ; 

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, 

And mock'd the cross and flame. 

They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel. 
The lion's gory mane : 
They bow'd their necks the death to feel : 
Who follows in their train ? 

A noble army, men and boys, 
The matron and the maid, 
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, 
In robes of light arrayed. 

They dimb'd the steep ascent of heaven, 
Through peril, toil, and pain ; 
O Cod ! to us may grace be given 
To follow in their train ! 



97 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Henry Hart Milman (1791-1868) 

Where the wicked cease from 

troubling^ and the weary 

are at rest 

BROTHER, thou art gone before us ; and thy saintly 
soul is flown 
Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sorrow 
is unknown ; 
From the burden of the flesh, and from care and fear 

releas'd, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
are at rest. 

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, and borne the 

heavy load ; 
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to reach His 

blest abode : 
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus upon his father's 

breast, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest. 



98 



Henry Hart Milman 

Sin can never taint thee now, not doubt thy faith assail, 
Nof thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit 

fail: 
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, whom on earth 

thou lovedst best. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest. 

Earth to earth, and dust to dust, the solemn priest hath 
said; 

So we lay the turf above thee now, and we seal thy nar- 
row bed : 

But thy spirit, brother, soars away among the faithful 
blest, 

Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
are at rest. 

And when the Lord shall summon us, whom thou hast 

left behind, 
May we, untainted by the world, as sure a welcome find ! 
May each, like thee, depart in peace, to be a glorious 

guest, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest ! 

LOFC. 



99 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

John Keble (1792-1866) 



City and Country 

YE hermits blest, ye holy maids. 
The nearest Heaven on earth, 
Who talk with God in shadowy glades. 
Free from rude care and mirth : 
To whom some viewless teacher brings 
The secret lore of rural things, 
The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, 
The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale : 

Say, when in pity ye have gazed 

On the wreathed smoke afar. 

That o'er some town, like mist upraised. 

Hung hiding sun and star, — 

Then as ye turn'd your weary eye 

To the green earth and open sky, 

Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell 

Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel ? 

But Love 's a flower that will not die 
For lack of leafy screen, 
And Christian Hope can cheer the eye 
That ne'er saw vernal green ; 



Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

Then be ye sure that Love can bless 

E'en in this crowded loneliness. 

Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, 

Go — thou art nought to us, nor we to thee — away! 



Felicia Dorothea Hemans 
(TO- l8 35) 



Dirge 



C 



ALM on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit, rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod. 
His seal was on thy brow. 



Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 



IOI 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Henry Francis Lyte (793-1847) 

Abide with me! Fast falls 
the eventide 

A BIDE with me! Fast falls the eventide; 
A\ The darkness deepens : Lord, with me abide ! 

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, O abide with me I 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day : 
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away ; 
Change and decay in all around I see ; 
O Thou, who changest not, abide with me I 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, 
But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free, 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me ! 

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ; 
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings : 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea : — 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me S 



102 



Henry Francis Lyte 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile. 
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile. 
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee. 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

I need Thy presence every passing hour : 
What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power ? 
Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me ! 

I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless : 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. 
Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory? 
— I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. 

Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes i 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies : 
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee: — 
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me ! 

Long did I toi/, and knew 
no earthly rest 

IONG did I toil, and knew no earthly rest : 
Far did I rove, and found no certain home ; 
At last I sought them in His sheltering breast, 
Who opes His arms, and bids the weary come : 

i°3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

With Him I found a home, a rest Divine : 
And I since then am His, and He is mine. 

Yes ! He is mine ! and nought of earthly things. 
Not all the charms of pleasure, wealth, or power, 
The fame of heroes, or the pomp of kings, 
Could tempt me to forego His love an hour. 
Go worthless world, I cry, with all that 's thine I 
Go ! I my Saviour's am, and He is mine. 

The good I have is from His stores supplied : 
The ill is only what He deems the best ; 
He for my Friend, I 'm rich with nought beside : 
And poor without Him, though of all possest : 
Changes may come ; I take, or I resign ; 
Content, while I am His, while He is mine. 

Whate'er may change, in Him no change is seen ; 
A glorious Sun, that wanes not nor declines ; 
Above the clouds and storms He walks serene, 
And sweetly on his people's darkness shines : 
All may depart ; I fret not, nor repine, 
While I my Saviour's am, while He is mine. 

He stays me falling, lifts me up when down, 
Reclaims me wandering, guards from every foe ; 
Plants on my worthless brow the vicWs crown : 
Which, in return, before His feet I throw, 

104 



Hartley Coleridge 

Grieved that I cannot better grace His shrine, 
Who deigns to own me His, as He is mine. 

While here, alas ! I know but half His love, 
But half discern Him, and but half adore ; 
But when I meet Him in the realms above, 
I hope to love Him better, praise Him more, 
And feel, and tell, amid the choir Divine, 
How fully I am His, and He is mine. 



Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849) 



Prayer 

BE not afraid to pray — to pray is right. 
Pray, if thou canst, with hope ; but ever pray, 
Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay ; 
Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 

Far is the time, remote from human sight, 
When war and discord on the earth shall cease ; 
Yet every prayer for universal peace 
Avails the blessed time to expedite. 

Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, 
Though it be what thou canst not hope to see : 
105 



□■ 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Pray to be perfed, though material leaven 
Forbid the spirit so on earth to be : 

But if for any wish thou darest not pray, 
Then pray to God to cast that wish away. 



John Henry ) Cardinal Newmar 

(1801-1890) 

The Pillar of the Cloud 

IEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 
Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home— 
Lead Thou me on ! 
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on. 
I loved to choose and see my path s but now 

Lead Thou me on ! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 



106 




John Henry, Cardinal Newman 

From the etching by Paul Rajon 
after the painting by W. W. Ouless 



Sarah Flower Adams 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moof and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone s 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 



Sarah Flower Adams (1805-1848) 
Nearer, my God, to Thee 

NEARER, my Cod, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee! 
E'en though it be a cross 
That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song would be, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee ! 

Though like the wanderer, 
The sun gone down, 
Darkness be over me, 
My rest a stone ; 
Yet in my dreams I 'd be 



107 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Nearer, my Cod, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee ! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto Heaven ; 
All that Thou send'st to me 
In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts 
Bright with Thy praise, 
Out ©f my stony griefs 
Bethel I 11 raise ; 
So by my wees to be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee ! 

Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky,, 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upwards I fly, 

Still all my song shall be, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee ! 



108 



Richard Chenevix Trench 

Richard Chenevix Trench 
Archbishop of Dublin (1807-1886) 



w 



What is Man ? 

HAT, many times I musing ask'd, is Man, 

If grief and care 
Keep far from him? he knows not what he can, 

What cannot bear 



He, till the fire hath proved him, doth remain 

The main part dross ; 
To lack the loving discipline of pain 

Were endless loss. 

Yet when my Lord did ask me on what side 

I were content, 
The grief, whereby I must be purified. 

To me were sent, 

As each imagined anguish did appear, 

Each withering bliss, 
Before my soul, I cried, ' Oh ! spare me here : 

Oh no, not this!' — 



109 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Like one that having need of, deep within, 

The surgeon's knife, 
Would hardly bear that it should graze the skin. 

Though for his life : — 

Till He at last. Who best doth understand 

Both what we need, 
And what can bear, did take my case in hand. 

Nor crying heed. 



Horatius Bonar (1808-1889) 
/ heard the voice of Jesus say 

I HEARD the voice of Jesus say. 
Come unto Me and rest ; 
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down 
Thy head upon My breast. 
I came to Jesus as I was, 
Weary and worn and sad, 
I found in Him a resting-place, 
And He has made me glad. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 
I am this dark world's light, 

no 



Thomas Grinfield 

Look unto Me, thy mofn shall rise. 
And all thy day be bright. 
I iook'd to Jesus, and I found 
In Him my Star, my Sun : 
And in that light of life I '11 walk, 
Till travelling days are done. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

Behold, I freely give 

The living water, thirsty one. 

Stoop down and drink and live. 

I came to Jesus, and I drank 

Of that life-giving stream. 

My thirst was quench'd, my soul revived. 

And now I live in Him. 



Thomas Grinfield (1788-1870) 

They talked of Jesus ^ as they 
went 

THEY talk'd of Jesus, as they went ; 
And Jesus, all unknown, 
Did at their side Himself present 
With sweetness all His own. 
in 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Swift, as He op'd the sacred word, 
His glory they discern'd ; 
And swift, as His deaf voice they heard. 
Their hearts within them burn'd. 

He would have left them, but that they 
With prayers His love assail'd : 
* Depart not yet ! a little stay ! ' 
They press'd Him, and prevail'd. 
And Jesus was reveal'd, as there 
He bless'd and brake the bread : 
But, while they mark'd His heavenly air. 
The matchless Guest had fled. 

And thus at times, as Christians talk 

Of Jesus and His word, 

He joins two friends amidst their walk. 

And makes, unseen, a third. 

And oh ! how sweet their converse flows, 

Their holy theme how clear. 

How warm with love each bosom glows, 

If Jesus be but near ! 

And they that woo His visits sweet. 
And will not let Him go, 
Oft, while His broken bread they eat. 
His soul-felt presence know : 

112 



Isaac Williams 

His gather'd friends He loves to meet 
And fill with joy their faith, 
When they with melting hearts repeat 
The memory of His death. 

But such sweet visits here are brief : 
Dispens'd from stage to stage, 
(A cheering and a prized relief,) 
Of faith's hard pilgrimage. 
There is a scene where Jesus ne'er, 
Ne'er leaves His happy guests; 
He spreads a ceaseless banquet there, 
And love still fires their breasts. 



Isaac Williams (1802-1865) 
Nunc suscipe, terra^ fovendum 

RECEIVE him, Earth, unto thine harbouring shrine ; 
In thy soft tranquil bosom let him rest ; 
These limbs of man I to thy care consign, 
And trust the noble fragments to thy breast. 

This house was once the mansion of a soul 
Brought into life by its Creator's breath ; 

"3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Wisdom did once this living mass control ; 

And Christ was there enshrined, who conquers death. 

Cover this Body to thy care consign'd ; 
Its Maker shall not leave it in the grave : 
But His own lineaments shall bear in mind, 
And shall recall the image which He gave. 



Ray Palmer (1808-1887) 
My faith look* up to Thee 

MY faith looks up to Thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 
Saviour divine ! 
Now hear me while I pray : 
Take all my guilt away ; 
O let me from this day 
Be wholly Thine ! 

May Thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart. 

My zeal inspire I 
As Thou hast died for me, 
O may my love to Thee 
Pure, warm, and changeless be, 

A living fire I 
114 



George MacDonald 

While life's dark maze I tread. 
And griefs around me spread. 

Be Thou my Guide ! 
Bid darkness turn to day. 
Wipe sorrow's tears away. 
Nor let me ever stray 

From Thee aside. 

When ends life's transient dream. 
When death's cold sullen stream 

Shall o'er me roll : 
Blest Saviour ! then in love 
Fear and distrust remove ; 
O bear me safe above, 

A ransom'd soul ! 



George MacDonald (1824-1905) 
That Holy Thing 

THEY all were looking for a king 
To slay their foes and lift them high : 
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing 
That made a woman cry. 



"5 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

O Son of Man, to right my lot 
Naught but Thy presence can avail ; 

Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, 
Nor on the sea Thy sail ! 

My how or when Thou wilt not heed, 
But come down Thine own secret stair, 

That Thou may'st answer all my need — 
Yea, every bygone prayer. 



Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) 
A Better Resurre&ion 

I HAVE no wit, no words, no tears ; 
My heart within me like a stone 
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears ; 
Look right, look left, I dwell alone ; 
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief 

No everlasting hills I see ; 
My life is in the falling leaf : 
O Jesus, quicken me ! 

My life is like a faded leaf, 
My harvest dwindled to a husk ; 

116 



Christina G. Rossetti 

Truly my life is void and brief 
And tedious in the barren dusk ; 

My life is like a frozen thing. 
No bud nor greenness can I see : 

Yet rise it shall, — the sap of Spring: 
O Jesus, rise in me ! 

My life is like a broken bowl, 

A broken bowl that cannot hold 
One drop of water for my soul 

Or cordial in the searching cold : 
Cast in the fire the perished thing, 

Melt and remould it, till it be 
A royal cup for Him my King : 

O Jesus, drink of me ! 

Sweet Death 

THE sweetest blossoms die. 
And so it was that, going day by day 
Unto the church to praise and pray, 
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully, 
I saw how on the graves the flowers 
Shed their fresh leaves in showers, 
And how their perfume rose up to the sky 
Before it passed away. 



"7 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

The youngest blossoms die. 

They die and fall and nourish the rich earth 

From which they lately had their birth : 
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by 

And is as though it had not been : — 

All colours turn to green ; 
The bright hues vanish and the odours fly. 

The grass hath lasting worth. 

And youth and beauty die. 

So be it, O my Cod, Thou Cod of truth : 

Better than beauty and than youth 
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company ; 

And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease, 

Are better far than these. 
Why should we shrink from our full harvest ? why 

Prefer to glean with Ruth ? 



1x8 



Henry Septimus Sutton 

Henry Septimus Sutton (1825. ) 
How beautiful it is to be alive! 

HOW beautiful it is to be alive ! 
To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace 
Did us afresh from nothingness derive 
That we might sing 'How happy is our case ! 
How beautiful it is to be alive ! ' 

To read in Cod's great Book, until we feel 
Love for the love that gave it ; then to kneel 
Close unto Him Whose truth our souls will shrive. 
While every moment's joy doth more reveal 
How beautiful it is to be alive. 

Rather to go without what might increase 
Our worldly standing, than our souls deprive 
Of frequent speech with Cod, or than to cease 
To feel, through having wasted health or peace. 
How beautiful it is to be alive. 

Not to forget, when pain and grief draw nigh, 

Into the ocean of time past to dive 

For memories of Cod's mercies, or to try 



119 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

To bear all sweetly, hoping still to cfy 
'How beautiful it is to be alive!' 

Thus ever towards man's height of nobleness 
Strive still some new progression to contrive ; 
Till, just as any other friend's, we press 
Death's hand ; and, having died, feel none the less 
How beautiful it is to be alive. 



William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) 



Inviffus 

UT of the night that covers me. 

Black as the pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 



O 



In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbow'd. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 

120 




Robert Louis Stevenson 
From the etching by William Strang 



Robert Louis Stevenson 

And yet the menace of the years 
Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate : 
I am the captain of my soul. 



Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) 



Requiem 



UNDER the wide and starry sky 
Dig the grave and let me lie : 
Glad did I live and gladly die, 
And I laid me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me : 
Here he lies where he long'd to be; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hilL 



INDEX TO AUTHORS 

With first Lines of their Poems 

Adams - y Sarah Flower (1805-1848) 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 107 

Addison^ Joseph (1672-1719) 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare 63 

The spacious firmament on high 62 

Amner, John 

A stranger here, as all my fathers were 14 

Anonymous 

Hierusalem, my happy home 6 

Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord 8 

Barbauldy Anna Lcetitia (1743-1825) 

Awake, my soul ! lift up thine eyes 88 

Blake y William (1758-1827) 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 89 

Bonar^ Horatius (1808-1889) 

I heard the voice of Jesus say no 

* 2 3 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Bum/an, John (1628-1688) 

He that is down needs fear no fall 

Campion, Thomas (15677-1619) 

Awake, awake ! thou heavy Sprite 

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore 

Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849) 

Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right 

Cowper, William (1731-1800) 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee 
O for a closer walk with God 
God moves in a mysterious way 

Crashaw, Richard (16137-1649) 

Lord, when the sense of Thy sweet grace 
O thou undaunted daughter of desires ! 

Doddridge, Philip (1702-1751) 

Ye golden lamps of Heaven, farewell 

Donne, John (1573-1631) 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay ? 
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 

124 



Index to Authors 

Drummondy William (1585-1649) 

Of this fair volume which we World do call 15 

Fletcher •, Phineas (1584-1650) 

Drop, drop slow tears 13 

Grinfieldy Thomas (1788-1870) 

They talk'd of Jesus, as they went in 

Heber^ Reginald (1783-1826) 

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning ! 94 

God, that madest earth and heaven 95 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! 95 

The Son of God goes forth to war 96 

Hemansy Felicia D. (1793-1835) 

Calm on the bosom of thy God 101 

Henley y W. E. (1849-1903) 

Out of the night that covers me no 

Herbert, George 0593- ,6 33) 

I made a posy while the day ran by 36 

I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay 31 

Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back 38 

O day most calm, most bright 33 

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell ? I humbly crave 36 

I2 5 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Keble, John (1792-1866) 

Ye hermits blest, ye holy maids 100 

Ken, Thomas (1637-17") 

The Past can be no more 60 

King, Henry (1591-1669) 

Accept, thou Shrine of my dead Saint 23 

Lyte, Henry Francis (1793-1847) 

Abide with me ! Fast falls the eventide 102 

Long did I toil, and knew no earthly rest 103 

MacDonald) George (1824-1905) 

They all were looking for a king 115 

Marvel, Andrew (1621-1678) 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 52 

Mi/man y Henry Hart (1791-1868) 

Brother, thou art gone before us ; and thy saintly 
soul is flown 98 

Milton ^ John (1608-1674) 

This is the month, and this the happy morn 48 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 40 

126 



Index to Authors 
Montgomery, James (1771-1854) 

Friend after friend departs 92 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 90 

Moore ^ Thomas (1779-1852) 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish 93 

Nashe, Thomas (1567-1600) 

Adieu ; farewell earth's bliss 3 

Newman, John Henry (1801-1890) 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 106 

Newton, John (1725-1809) 

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds 81 

In evil long I took delight 80 

Palmer, Ray (1808-1887) 

My faith looks up to Thee 114 

Pope, Alexander (1688-1744) 

Vital spark of heav'nly flame ! 72 

Quarles, Francis (1592-1644) 

Can he be fair, that withers at a blast? 28 

Can nothing settle my uncertain breast 29 

Close now thine eyes and rest secure 31 

1*7 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

JRossetti, Christina G. (1830-1894) 

I have no wit, no words, no tears 116 

The sweetest blossoms die 117 

Shirley, James (1594-1666) 

O fly, my soul ! what hangs upon 39 

Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586) 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust 2 

Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599) 

Most glorious Lord of Life ! that, on this day i 

Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850-1894) 

Under the wide and starry sky m 

Sutton, Henry Septimus (1825-?) 

How beautiful it is to be alive ! 119 

Tate, Nahum (1652-1715) 

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night 61 

Taylor, Jeremy (1613-1667) 

Lord, come away 51 

Toplady, A. M. (740-1778) 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me 86 

128 



Index to Authors 
Trench, JR. C. (1807-1886) 

What, many times I musing ask'd, is Man 109 

Vaughan, Henri/ (1622-1695) 

Happy those early days, when I 54 

I saw Eternity the other night 54 

I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour 56 
When night comes, list thy AttAs ; make plain the 

way 58 

Watts ^ Isaac (1674-1748) 

Am I a soldier of the Cross 71 

Before Jehovah's awful throne 64 

I sing th* almighty power of God 66 

My Shepherd will supply my need 68 

O God, our help in ages past 65 

Plunged in a gulf of dark despair 69 

There is a land of pure delight 70 

Wesley, Charles (1708-1788) 

Jesu, Lover of my soul 77 

O for a thousand tongues to sing 79 

Wesley ) John (703-1791) 

And can it be that I should gain 74 

Thou hidden love of God, whose height 76 

Williams^ Isaac (1802-1865) 

Receive him, Earth, unto thine harbouring shrine 113 
129 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

Wither, George (1588-1667) 

Lord ! living here are we 21 

Now that my body dead-alive 18 

Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear 16 

Wotton, Sir Henry (1568-1640) 

Oh, thou great Power I in whom I move 10 



'30 



THE TABLE 

or, Index to first Lines 



A 

A bide with me ! Fast falls the eventide (Lyte) 102 

Accept, thou Shrine of my dead Saint (King) 23 

Adieu ; farewell earth's bliss (Nashe) 3 

Am I a soldier of the Cross ( Watts) 71 

And can it be that I should gain ( Wesley) 74 

A stranger here, as all my fathers were (Amner) 14 

Awake, awake! thou heavy sprite (Campion) 5 

Awake, my soul ! lift up thine eyes (Barbauld) 88 

B 

X>efore Jehovah's awful throne ( Watts) 64 
Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right (Cole- 

ridge) 105 
Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! 

(Heber) 94 
Brother, thou art gone before us ; and thy saintly 

soul is flown (Milman) 98 

c 

/^alm on the bosom of thy God (Hemans) 101 

Can he be fair, that withers at a blast (Quarles) 28 

Can nothing settle my uncertain breast (Quarles) 29 

Close now thine eyes, and rest secure (Quarles) 31 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish 

(Moore) 93 

*3i 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

D 

TVath, be not proud, though some have called 

thee (Donne) n 

Drop, drop slow tears (Fletcher) 13 



T7ar from the world, O Lord, I flee (Copper) 84 

Friend after friend departs (Montgomery) 92 

G 

/^od moves in a mysterious way (Cowper) 85 

God, that madest earth and heaven (Heber) 95 

H 

LJappy those early days, when I (Vaughan) 54 

He that is down needs fear no fall (Bunyan) 59 

Hierusalem, my happy home (Anonymous) 6 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! (Heber) 95 

How beautiful it is to be alive! (Sutton) 119 

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds (Newton) 81 

/ 

T have no wit, no words, no tears (Christina G. 

Rossetti) 116 

I heard the voice of Jesus say (Bonar) no 

I made a posy while the day ran by (Herbert) 36 

In evil long I took delight (Newton) 80 

I saw Eternity the other night (Vaughan) 54 

I sing th' almighty power of God ( Watts) 66 

I traveird on, seeing the hill, where lay (Herbert) 31 

I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour ( Vaughan) 56 

132 



I 



Index to First Lines 



eso. Lover of my soul ( Wesley) jj 



L 

f ead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 

(Newman) 106 
Leave me, O Love, which feachest but to dust 

(Sidney) 2 

Little lamb, who made thee ? (Blake) 89 

Long did I toil, and knew no earthly rest (Lyte) 103 

Lord, come away (Taylor) 51 

Lord ! living here are we ( Wither) 21 

Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace (Crashaw) 49 
Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back 

(Herbert) 38 

M 

Vf ost glorious Lord of Life ! that, on this day 

(Spenser) 1 

My faith looks up to Thee (Palmer) 114 

My Shepherd will supply my need (Watts) 68 

N 

"fearer, my God, to Thee (Adams) 107 

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent 

to shore (Campion) 5 

Now that my body dead-alive ( Wither) 18 

o 

f\ day most calm, most bright (Herbert) 33 

O fly, my soul ! what hangs upon (Shirley) 39 

O for a closer walk with God (Cotcptr) 83 

133 



The Pilgrim's Staff 

O for a thousand tongues to praise ( Wesley) 79 
Of this fair volume which we World do call 

(Drummond) 15 

O God, our help in ages past (Watts) 65 

Oh, thou great Power ! in whom I move ( Wotton) 10 

Out of the night that covers me (Henley) 120 

O thou undaunted daughter of desires I (Crashaw) 50 

p 

Dlunged in a gulf of dark despair ( Watts) 69 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire (Montgomery) 90 

R 

Deceive him, Earth, unto thine harbouring shrine 

" (Williams) 113 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me (Toplady) 86 



O weet baby, sleep f what ails my dear (Wither) 16 
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell r I humbly 

crave (Herbert) 36 

T 

T^he Lord my pasture shall prepare (Addison) 63 

The Past can be no more (Ken) 60 

There is a land of pure delight ( Watts) 70 

The Son of God goes forth to war (Heber) 96 

The spacious firmament on high (Addison) 62 

The sweetest blossoms die (Christina G. Eossetti) 117 

They all were looking for a king (MacDonald) 115 

They talk'd of Jesus, as they went (Grin field) 111 
This is the month, and this the happy morn 

(Milton) 48 

134 



Index to First Lines 

Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay ? 

(Donne) 12 

Thou hidden love of God, whose height (Wesley) 76 

u 

T Tnder the wide and starry sky (Stevenson) 121 

V 

\7ital spark of heav'nly flame ! (Pope) 72 

w 

TYjThen night comes, list thy ittis; make plain 
™ the way (Vaughan) 58 

Where the remote Bermudas ride (Marcel) 52 

What, many times I musing ask'd, is Man 

( Trench) 109 

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night 

(Tate) 61 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun (Donne) 12 

Y 

Y e golden lamps of Heaven, farewell (Doddridge) 73 
Ye hermits blest, ye holy maids (Keble) 100 

Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord (Anony- 
mous) 8 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
(Milton) 40 



The poems, "Out of the Night that Covers Me," 
by W. E. Henley, and "Under the Wide and Starry 
Sky," by Robert Louis Stevenson, taken respectively 
from "Poems by William Ernest Henley," and 
"Poems and Ballads" (copyright 1895 and 1896), are 
used in this collection by courteous permission of 
Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons. 



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